There was a certain choreography between Seth Rome and Ryan Sloane—like two dogs circling the same hydrant, except one was older, fatter, and bored, and the other was hungry for validation and stupid enough to beg for it.
Sloane was Rome’s protégé—not officially, not written anywhere. But everyone knew it. He shadowed Rome like a second shadow. Same smug expression, same lazy way of pretending to think before speaking, same military-dad-posture to mask the fact that he hadn’t done an ounce of field work all week. If Rome scratched his neck, Sloane scratched his shoulder. If Rome barked at a female detective, Sloane tried to throw in a laugh as if that made it okay.
He was a divorced father of three, and he’d tell you that within five minutes of meeting him, like a badge of trauma he wore as justification for being an ass.
“It’s hard, you know? Three boys. No support. All on me. So, remember, marry someone who has more to lose than you,” was his advice to young officers.
That line was like the opening act to his performances—the lead-in to whatever sad, manipulative story he needed to tell so he could blend in and worm his way into sympathy.
But what made him dangerous wasn’t the pain. It was the way he weaponized it.
He had a specific skill: watching me. Not in a sexual way—although his glances sometimes held that same cheap glaze—but in a way that studied me like I was a social equation to solve. Whenever he saw me talking to someone, laughing with someone, connecting, he’d appear like a mosquito under fluorescent light.
“Oh hey! Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he’d say—smiling too hard, sliding in like he belonged. Then he’d start talking about his custody battle or some old case he “ran point on” (he didn’t), until the person I was speaking to had no choice but to nod along and forget the original conversation.
That was the point. Interfere. Interrupt. Infiltrate.
They must’ve trained for this.
One day, I overheard them in the back corner of the squad room. They thought I’d left. I hadn’t. I just moved without making noise—which is easy when no one expects you to be listening.
Rome had that fat-cat grin on his face. He was sitting back, hands on his stomach, legs wide like the desk was his throne. Sloane stood next to him, sipping cheap coffee, nodding with eager eyes.
“You gotta understand her game,” Rome said.
“She acts like she doesn’t care, but it’s a front. She cares too much. That’s how you beat her.”
Sloane nodded. “Right. Be cold back?”
Rome smirked. “Nah. Be friendly. Over-friendly. Get in good with the people she’s cool with. Win them over. Make her feel like she’s losing ground. You gotta play the long game.”
I stood just outside the break room door, invisible. My heartbeat didn’t race. It slowed.
Sloane said, “Yeah, I noticed she gets along with So-and-So. I been talking to him more lately.”
Rome chuckled. “Exactly. Peel ‘em off. She won’t say anything. She never does.”
He was right. I didn’t.
Not because I didn’t know what was happening.
But because they needed me silent to feel powerful.
And nothing makes a coward itch more than not knowing what you’re thinking.
Later that day, Sloane came up to me with that half-fake, half-practiced grin.
“Hey Sarah. I heard you worked that robbery case—Rome said you crushed it.”
I didn’t look up from my paperwork. “Oh? He talks about me?”
He laughed, off-balance. “Yeah, yeah, you know—nothing bad.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t assume it was bad. But good to know you’re both thinking of me.”
That quiet reply was enough. His smile cracked just a little. He walked away not knowing whether he’d been acknowledged or dismissed.
That was always the goal.
Their training would continue. Rome would keep molding him into another hollow shell. Another manipulator who confused charm for integrity. And Sloane would keep copying, clinging, inserting himself into other people’s orbits.
But they didn’t realize something.
You can’t break someone who’s already been through worse than your little games.
And you can’t win a war when the person you’re trying to isolate doesn’t need your approval to survive.
